


Damaged

by heretherebemonsters



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Amputation, Angst, Blood, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gore, Hatred, M/M, Self-Hatred, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-27
Updated: 2017-03-26
Packaged: 2018-04-17 12:13:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4666116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heretherebemonsters/pseuds/heretherebemonsters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After losing his brother and his arm, Malik struggles to reconcile his principles with the deepest desires of his heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I own nothing you recognize.

There was little in the world of which an assassin was afraid. From their earliest days, they were trained to overcome their fears, to stride forward confidently into any and all situations. It was a lesson drilled into each of them endlessly until it was like a mantra which could not be forgotten. There was absolutely no room for fear in an assassin’s life. It would only hinder them.

They were taught to be cautious, yes, but caution was different from fear. Caution kept one alive.

But if there could be said to be one thing that every assassin was wary of, or even dreaded, it would be the prospect of losing the use of their bodies in some way. An assassin’s body was his greatest tool, after all, strong and swift and sleek. Without it in fully functional form an assassin was no longer an assassin.

This was now the looming reality which Malik Al-Sayf faced. And he had never been more scared.

When he had stumbled back to the fortress at Masyaf after the horrible debacle at Solomon’s Temple, he had been too awash in grief over Kadar and boiling rage at Altair to truly notice the state of his injuries. He knew he had lost a lot of blood and was light-headed with it but he had still been strong enough to walk on his own and lucid enough to stand there and berate Altair for what had happened. It was only some time later, after he’d been taken to the healers, that he realized just how severe the damage had been.

The healers dithered and argued amongst themselves in lowered voices as Malik sat there, clutching the thick bandage they’d immediately given him against his left arm, which dangled uselessly at his side, the ornately tooled bracer hiding his hidden blade still buckled to his forearm. Blood had flowed from his wounds to soak into the dark leather and coat the delicate inner workings of the weapon. Malik frowned slightly; it would take some diligent cleaning to get it back into working order.

Malik had become aware of a persistent ache in his arm now that he had nothing else to focus on. He had deliberately steered his mind clear of recent events, refusing to think about the fact that Kadar was gone and Altair still lived, despite his culpability in what had happened. None of it would have happened if the damned man wasn’t so arrogant and had just listened to Malik’s warnings, dammit…Malik shook his head slightly as if to push the thought away. Now was not the time or place for hysterical anger or crushing grief. There would be plenty of time for that later..

His attention was drawn when the tiny knot of healers parted and one of them approached. Malik recognized him as the head surgeon at the fortress. Though the healers were not part of the warrior caste of the Order, they had all the same battle training that assassins had and wore similar robes. The surgeon’s red sash swirled with the long tails of his tunic as he walked toward Malik. 

“Master Al-Sayf,” the surgeon greeted quietly when he drew near. Malik gave him a respectful nod. This man had patched him up more times than he cared to count over the last few years after Malik had attained journeyman status and then ascended to master just last year.  
The surgeon paused before Malik and then reached over to drag a nearby stool close. He seated himself and eyed Malik’s arm for a moment before leaning forward and pressing his own fingers against the blood-soaked bandage. Malik took the hint to remove his own hand and he leaned back, trying to relax. 

The surgeon carefully peeled the bandage away and studied Malik’s arm for a moment before humming in approval. “Good,” he murmured. “The bleeding has stopped.” He tossed the soiled wrapping off to the side and then reached into his thick belt and removed a small knife. He used it to carefully cut away Malik’s sleeve at the shoulder. When the cutting was finished, he put the knife away and then proceeded to carefully pick up Malik’s left hand, slowly turning it over in his palm, watching Malik’s face for any signs of pain. A sharp twinge shot from Malik’s fingertips to his shoulder and he couldn’t hold in the hiss of discomfort that slipped between his teeth. The surgeon murmured apologetically as his nimble fingers swiftly unbuckled Malik’s hidden blade.

Malik fought back a protest as he watched his prized weapon slide off his arm. He rarely took it off, even sleeping with it on; it was second nature to have the familiar weight of the bracer snug around his forearm. But he also knew it was necessary to remove it so the surgeon could properly examine his arm. Once more the man appeared apologetic as he set the weapon aside reverently, knowing how attached assassins were to their hidden blades. 

Next the bloodied sleeve of Malik’s tunic came off. It was a slow process and rather painful, the soaked cloth pulling at gaping wounds as it was peeled away, but Malik just bit his lip and breathed deeply in an effort to stay still. Finally, all obstructions removed, Malik and the surgeon could both take a good look at the state of Malik’s injuries. 

Malik couldn’t help but wince; his arm was a shredded, mangled mess, his elbow twisted at the wrong angle. He could see the shiny white end of a bone poking through his dusky skin just above the maimed joint and he had to look away quickly, swallowing thickly as his stomach turned. The surgeon studied it all with a practiced eye, his brows drawn together. He carefully turned Malik’s arm in one direction then the other, obviously trying to spare the young assassin any pain if possible. 

Malik was still looking away, his gaze focused on a distant spot on the far wall, when the surgeon’s voice broke the stillness of the room. “Can you feel this at all?”

Malik’s dark brown eyes swung back in surprise to see the surgeon tapping a fingertip against his palm before taking each fingertip and curling Malik’s fingers inward one by one. Malik realized as he watched that he ought to be feeling something, anything. Just a few minutes ago hadn’t he felt a bolt of pain when his arm had been moved? Why was there nothing now?

With a sinking feeling, Malik slowly shook his head, still transfixed by the sight of the surgeon touching his unfeeling skin. “There is nothing,” he murmured.

The surgeon halted his movements and set Malik’s hand back down on his thigh, sighing heavily. “That’s what I was afraid of,” he said softly.

“What does it mean?” Malik asked, both dreading the answer and needing to hear it.

“It means that the damage to your arm is more severe than I had hoped. My colleagues told me through their cursory examinations when you first arrived that an amputation was required. I wanted to see for myself. Now I have to agree with them.”

Malik didn’t move for a long second as he attempted to process this. An amputation…? Surely they didn’t really mean to take his arm away. How would he continue on as an assassin? He would be utterly useless without both his arms. A flutter of panic began in Malik’s belly. He shook his head sharply.

“No. You can’t take my arm.”

The surgeon sighed. “I don’t want to, Malik. I know what this means for an assassin. It is never something I do unless I have to.”

“There must be some other way,” Malik said desperately.

“The damage is beyond our ability to heal,” the surgeon said calmly, though the regret was heavy in his voice. “Your bones are shattered beyond repair. It’s also obvious that nerves have been severed and that is why you can’t feel anything. Even if I could find a way to save the limb, you’d never have full use of it again.”

Malik could feel his heartbeat, racing now inside his chest as the full-blown panic set in. It was just too much after everything that had happened that day. A rush of emotion spilled through Malik, the irritation and murderous rage toward Altair, the heavy, crushing sorrow at the thought that Kadar wasn’t ever going to be here again, the deep despair and hatred for himself because he had failed, failed to keep Altair from doing something stupid and brash, failed to keep his brother safe, failed to keep himself out of harm’s way. And now he would fail once more, unable to carry on his duties as an assassin. 

Sudden tears stung his dark eyes. “Please, no,” he whispered pitifully. “I need my arm.”

The surgeon looked stricken as he saw plainly the pleading and desperation in Malik’s gaze. “I wish I could let you keep it,” he said softly.

All of what happened next was both a blur and a slow progression for Malik. The world seemed to move both faster and slower at once. Malik felt as though he were involved and yet not a part of what was happening. It seemed like someone else who fought in vain against the healers who came to restrain him and toss him up on the wide wooden table where the doctors performed all their procedures. The wood was worn smooth with years of use, pitted and scarred in places and patches stained darker from old blood spilled. He had been on this table before when he had required wounds be stitched or bones be set. But now it felt like an executioner’s block. 

The rational part of his mind knew that the conclusion the surgeon had come to was sound and even agreed it was for the best but the rest of his mind, the rest of his being, his very spirit, screamed out at the idea of not being whole, unable to fulfill his role as an assassin, a soldier for the Brotherhood. A role that he had trained all his life for and had devoted every ounce of strength and determination into and which he would now be robbed of. 

Malik could hear the sharp metallic sound of a blade sliding over a whetstone and he renewed his struggles against his captors. All manner of oaths and curses left his mouth but he could hear the edge of panic in his own voice. The healers doubled their efforts at keeping him pinned to the table. There were four of them, each holding down a thrashing limb. Dimly, Malik noticed that his left arm would not work quite like he wanted it to; while his other arm and his legs fought for freedom, vast amounts of strength coiled in them, the damaged arm mostly flopped uselessly. He could feel his shoulder working, straining against the healer’s grip, but not far below that he realized he ceased to feel much of anything. He had no awareness of where his hand might be at all. He couldn’t deny that something was terribly wrong but he was still unwilling to give up his arm.

“Do it quickly!” came a voice from beside his head. “I don’t know how much longer we can hold him.”

“I’ll solve that,” came another voice. In the next moment, Malik was stunned by a blow to the side of his head, just hard enough to disorient him but not hard enough to truly hurt him. An explosion of pain blossomed across his skull and he saw stars, tiny pinpricks of white that danced in front of his eyes. His struggling ceased for the moment as he tried to clear the fuzz in his head and regain his bearings.

“Don’t hurt him, Tamir!” 

“I didn’t. I didn’t hit him very hard.”

The voices seemed far away but Malik could still hear them arguing. He reflected dazedly that things were dire if the normally calm and collected healers of the Brotherhood were beginning to snap at one another.

“Just get this over with already! No sense in making the young man suffer any longer than he has to.”

There was a pause in which Malik could hear the shuffling of feet and whispering of robes and a sound like water or some other liquid being sloshed around. Then he vaguely felt his arm being seized and moved; the only way he knew for certain was the movement of his shoulder joint, which he could feel clearly. The limb had been moved straight out from his body, his tautly muscled bicep pinned against the smooth wood underneath. 

“Where?” came the question.

“Here.” A succinct answer and a light touch across Malik’s bicep, drawing a line across his skin. A corner of his consciousness screamed, fully aware of what was about to happen, but the greater part of him was still stuck in a fog from the blow to his skull. Malik couldn’t find it within him to muster up any more strength for a struggle which would ultimately be fruitless. 

Malik was jolted back into full awareness in the next moment however as a cold blade kissed his skin, sinking and sliding in. He sucked in a deep breath borne of shock and then let out a scream borne entirely of pain. Still, the blade cut deeper, slicing his flesh relentlessly and going yet deeper to separate tendons and muscles. The pain was white hot and Malik could feel it burning through his entire body, the agony spreading outward from his arm. All thought and outside awareness vanished. All that remained was the unrelenting agony of having his limb severed from his body.

Malik screamed at the top of his lungs only to take in more air and do it again. His body twisted on the table, instinctively trying to escape the pain. The healers held him down even harder, exchanging pitying glances among themselves. Amputations were never easy but without fail assassins were the most difficult patients. So full of pride and fierce independence. The healers were all thinking the same thing: they should have knocked him out beforehand.

The cutting continued and Malik could feel it on his bone now. There was a pause and the pressure stopped; Malik whimpered pitifully. A moment later, the agony began again, the sharp edged knife replaced with a large-toothed serrated blade that proceeded to saw away at his bone. The sickening sound filled the air even as the coppery scent of blood saturated the room. Voices called out, demanding fresh water and bandages. Footsteps pattered hurriedly all around, it seemed. 

Malik had lost the energy to scream as he had before and was now reduced to ragged moans. Even his body had seemingly lost its will to get as far from the pain as possible and his limbs lay limp and exhausted. The agony hadn’t relented in the slightest but Malik was drained, his previous exertions leaving nothing left to fight back with. The sawing continued; it was slow going. The world was spinning and Malik was sobbing now, trails of hot tears tracking down his temples and into his short-cropped black hair. He realized he was babbling, but the words falling muttered from his chapped lips were unintelligible. 

An eternity seemed to have passed before the serrated blade finally passed through the bone and Malik clearly felt a jolt as it separated. That was it, the end of everything for him. There was no going back now. Bones could not be sewn back together like split flesh. 

Malik wished for nothing more in that moment than his own death, or at least blessed unconsciousness. As the pain blossomed afresh once more with the advent of more slicing with the smooth blade, he abruptly got his wish. In seconds, the world went black.

+++

Outside the healers’ building in the small stone courtyard, Altair was seated on a bench, elbows on his knees and head in hands, listening to the screams emanating from inside the building. He knew Malik was in surgery right then but he still would have known that rich voice regardless. His heart twisted at the sound of Malik’s voice raised in such pure agony; guilt swamped him as he thought again how this whole situation was his fault. If it hadn’t been for his actions, Kadar would still be here and Malik would still be healthy and whole. His friend wouldn’t be in this current state of suffering, announcing his pain so loudly that surely all of Masyaf could hear. 

Altair and Malik had grown up together and had been best friends since they were very young. They had gone everywhere and done everything together for as long as Altair could remember. When Kadar had gotten a little older, he had started to tag along and soon it had been the three of them, training together, going on short missions together, just being together. Altair suddenly and acutely missed those sun-soaked days and long starry nights. He would have given anything just then to go back to them, knowing what he knew now, and change things to make certain none of this would ever come to pass.

The last year had been trying for all three of them. Altair had been promoted to Master a short two years ago; at four and twenty, he had been the youngest Master the Order had ever seen. Malik was only a year older but his own promotion had followed over half a year later. Altair reflected that things between himself and Malik had begun to go sour just after his promotion. Malik had always pushed Altair to do the best he could, had always wanted to see him do well, but none of them had ever expected the younger man to be promoted first. So while Malik had been proud of Altair's progress and achievements, a large part of him had also been deeply shocked and hurt. As the weeks immediately after the promotion had passed, those emotions had morphed into jealousy, something which had plagued and permeated their interactions since.

Sometimes, the two friends had fought over things they normally wouldn't have and there were times when Malik had refused to speak to Altair for days at a time. Altair hadn't liked the road they were going down but he hadn't known what to do about it. He had hidden his concerns behind his typical wall of stoicism and arrogance and that had only served to enrage Malik further. Kadar had gone to great pains to play the role of peacekeeper, trying to ease the arguments and disagreements away. 

Now he was gone and Altair feared things between himself and Malik would never be salvageable.

Altair tried to smother the stab of pain that brought him when he noticed that the screaming and howling had stopped. He wasn't sure if that was a good sign or a bad one. He remained seated, ears pricked for any more sounds of distress from inside. When none came, he stood slowly, heart pounding. 

A wild deluge of thoughts came: had something happened to Malik? Had something gone wrong that the healers couldn't fix? Immediately on the heels of these thoughts, Altair dismissed them. Malik would be fine. The man was nothing if not tough and possessed of a stubborn streak as wide as Syria itself.

Altair approached the door to the healers' guild. Taking a deep breath, he reached out and pushed it open. In the large room beyond, several healers moved about hurriedly, obviously in the process of cleaning up. One of them carried a stack of rags in his arms while another lugged pails of water. Still others were clearing away bloodied bandages and the tools they had used. Malik was nowhere in sight.

The sheer amount of blood coating the operating table gave Altair pause. The dark liquid had pooled thickly on the table's surface and even run off the edge in places to gather in puddles on the stone floor. This was the mess the healers were so busily mopping up. Altair couldn't smother the twinge of fear that he felt at the sight; he hadn't thought Malik was so badly injured.

One of the senior healers emerged through a curtained doorway in the back of the room, wiping his hands on a cloth. Blood had soaked through his garments, effectively ruining his white robes and staining his red sash an even deeper crimson. He looked tired and drained and worried, Altair thought. That gave him some hope that maybe his fears were exaggerated because after all, if Malik hadn't pulled through the procedure the surgeon would no doubt appear sorrowful instead.

Altair skirted the edges of the room quickly, doing his best to keep out of the way of the working healers. Indeed, none of them seemed to notice him. They seemed singularly focused on their tasks, faces grim. Altair found this troubling. What had happened? 

The surgeon glanced up from his brooding when he heard Altair draw closer. His face registered surprise. “Master L'Ahad,” he greeted with a slight bowing of his head. 

Altair wasted no time with pleasantries. “How is Malik?”

The surgeon sighed and gestured at his blood-soaked robes. “As you can see the surgery was messy. But he handled it rather well, all things considered. He lost consciousness near the end and he's still asleep.”

Altair nodded as he took in the information. “Can I at least see him?” When he saw the surgeon about to protest, he added, “Please. I just need to know that he's alright. He's my best friend, you know.”

The surgeon sighed. “I know. I have spent many years patching the two of you up, after all.” He gave up trying to wipe all the blood from his hands and turned instead back toward the doorway he'd just come through, waving Altair after him. At the threshold, just as Altair was about to sweep the curtain aside, the surgeon reached out and swiftly grasped the assassin by the elbow. Altair looked back at him, slightly startled, to see the man's face written over with anguish and regret.

“Altair, before you go in, you should know that what we did was necessary. I wouldn't have done this if I didn't have to.” 

Altair's brow furrowed. “What are you talking about?”

The surgeon nodded at the room beyond. “Look for yourself.”

Altair decided he would do just that and steeled himself for some unknown horror as he swept the curtain back. A small room greeted him, filled by only a bed and a low table to hold supplies. It was sparse but clean. The little table currently held a copper basin filled with clean water beside a tall pile of pristine white bandages. Jars of salves were also present and Altair wondered what they were for. His sharp amber eyes took it all in in a moment before swinging over to the bed. A gasp lodged in his throat as his heart skipped a beat.

Malik lay deathly still in the bed, covered by a thin blanket pulled to his bare chest. His dusky skin was pale, ashen, and a light sheen of sweat covered it. His black hair was disheveled and damp. His eyes were closed and his chest rose and fell quickly but evenly. But Altair's reaction was due to the obvious incompleteness of the left side of Malik's body. 

His arm was gone, ending in an abrupt stump wrapped tightly in bloody bandages.

Altair swayed on his feet slightly as the reality of the situation hit him. This meant so many things but most importantly that Malik would never be able to return to active duty within the Order. He was never going to be whole again. He had one more thing to be angry with Altair about. He would have to adjust to an entirely new way of life and find a new path to take. 

Never again would the two of them go on missions together. Never again would they run across the rooftops or fight back to back when the guards outnumbered them. Nothing would ever be the same.

Altair felt the surgeon's hand on his shoulder, steadying him. “I'm sorry, Altair. There was nothing else we could do. I know he was your partner on most missions.”

“You took his arm,” Altair murmured disbelievingly. “You took away his ability to be an assassin.”

“I know,” the surgeon replied, sounding broken. “I regret this more than I have words for, Altair, believe me. But even if we could have saved the arm, he still wouldn't have had the use of it. It was beyond our ability to fix.”

Altair was silent for a long moment, taking the surgeon's words in and trying to accept them. Finally, he asked, “What happens now? Will he be alright?”

“Yes, as long as infection doesn't set in,” the surgeon explained. “We will always have someone here to watch over him and change the wrappings. The arm will bleed for a while and there will be pain but we will do our best to make sure he is comfortable.”

Altair nodded, unable to take his gaze off Malik. The surgeon squeezed his shoulder before letting go. “You are welcome to come visit him any time, of course.”

“Thank you,” Altair murmured, already knowing that Malik wouldn't want to see him. This was his fault, after all. Altair turned and left the healers' guild, his steps heavy and his heart heavier.

+++

Altair came to see Malik late the next evening, not sure what to expect. He had steeled himself on the walk over to the healers’ guild, imagining a flurry of screamed insults as his friend vented his frustration and anger and pain on the party responsible. Then on the other hand, it was possible that Malik would just ignore him completely, staring at him and not saying a word the way he often did when Altair had roused his ire. For as sharp as Malik’s tongue could be, his silences were often worse than anything he could have said.

But Altair found neither when he arrived at the guild. He was admitted immediately to the room where Malik lay and found his fellow assassin just as still and unconscious as the previous day. The surgeon he’d spoken with before was seated on a stool at the bedside, looking troubled as he cradled a bowl of water in his lap and mopped at Malik’s forehead with a wet cloth. He glanced up as Altair entered.

“Welcome back,” he murmured quietly.

“What’s going on?” Altair asked, his gaze lingering on Malik as his brows furrowed in concern.

The surgeon sighed. “As you can see, he still remains unconscious. But now it seems that his body is beginning to react to the loss of his limb. Sometime overnight last night, he became feverish and it has not broken.”

Worry stabbed at Altair as he drew closer to the bed. “Does this happen often after…?” He let his words trail off, unable to put voice to the rest of the sentence. The fact that Malik was now short an arm still seemed surreal to him. He had lain awake in his quarters most of the previous night thinking about it, trying to imagine Malik, his proud, strong Malik, learning to adapt to a life with only one arm. It was heartbreaking to think about.

The surgeon lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug. “Sometimes. It depends on the patient.”

“Is there…” Altair hesitated, unsure if he wanted to utter his worst fears aloud. The surgeon waited patiently. Finally, the assassin plunged ahead. “Is there a chance he will die?”

The surgeon sighed heavily. “There is always that chance, Altair,” he replied in stark honesty. “But Malik is strong and he is a fighter. We both know this. I have confidence he will be fine.”

Altair nodded slowly, his brows drawn together in concern as he studied Malik, so still and pale in the narrow bed. He lingered, not yet ready to leave. The surgeon seemed to catch this and decided to have mercy on the younger man. “You are welcome to stay, Altair. There is no harm in having you sit by his bedside.”

Altair blinked and swung his amber eyes to the surgeon, as if he had been jolted out of a reverie by the words. There was a pause, then he nodded. The surgeon rose from his stool and motioned for Altair to take his place. “Sit here. I will return shortly.”

Altair sat and didn’t move as the surgeon slipped from the room, the curtain whispering in his wake. Altair found his gaze fixed on what was left of Malik’s arm, where it ended not far below his shoulder. He sat there and stared at it until the surgeon returned. The young assassin wasn’t even the aware the healer had returned until he felt a hand on his shoulder, making him jump. The surgeon murmured an apology for startling him and then asked if he was alright.

“I’m fine,” Altair responded, though his voice sounded weak in his own ears. He paused and then burst out, “It’s just so strange. I can’t imagine Malik not being able to do the things he’s always done.” _The things we’ve always done together. ___

“It will be an adjustment for everyone,” the surgeon said gently and gave his shoulder a squeeze before letting go. “I have to change his bandages. Perhaps you’d like to help?”

For the next half hour, Altair did as the surgeon directed him to do and carefully watched the man unwind the soaked wrappings, clean the wound and then rewrap it. Altair found himself alternately fascinated and repulsed by the sight of Malik’s stump; it was a livid injury crisscrossed with rows of neat stitches, the skin nearby bruised in varying shades of purple, yellow and black. A seemingly endless trickle of blood leaked from between the stitches. Altair couldn’t help but wrinkle his nose a bit.

The surgeon offered him a sympathetic smile. “I know it is not a pleasant sight.” 

Altair shrugged. “Might as well get used to it.” It wasn’t like Malik was going to grow an arm back. 

+++

Altair ended up spending the rest of the night at the healers’ guild, alternating watches with the surgeon and a junior healer. After watching once more, Altair felt confident he could tend to Malik’s injury and did so through the night, changing the wrappings gently and carefully. The wound was leaking so steadily that the bandages required changing every few hours and Altair attended to it diligently. In between he perched on the stool and watched Malik sleep, mopping the sweat from his brow and neck with a loving touch. 

Near dawn, Malik was caught in the throes of a dream and shuffled under his blanket weakly, his forehead creasing in distress. Altair responded by sitting on the edge of the mattress, his hip touching Malik’s, and stroking his friend’s brow, murmuring soothing words. It took only a minute for Malik to quiet and become still again. 

The surgeon had been watching from the doorway and now stepped into the room, speaking quietly. Altair straightened when he sensed the man’s presence, realizing instantly that he must have been present for much longer. Altair inwardly cursed; his senses were slipping the more consumed he became with Malik’s wellbeing.

“That is amazing,” the surgeon commented. “Like you chased away whatever he was dreaming about.”

Altair shrugged. “He knows my touch,” he said softly and that gave him some hope. He knew Malik would be angry with him when he finally woke up and rightfully so but it gave Altair some small measure of comfort knowing that Malik’s subconscious still responded to him. 

Only after he said the words, did he realize the many different ways they could be taken. In the next instant, Altair decided he didn’t care; he was not ashamed of the relationship he and Malik shared. Or had shared. For his part, the surgeon said nothing. Truthfully, he would not be surprised by such intimacy between the two. They had always been close, after all, and had hardly been separated since they were small boys. Of course, such relationships were not spoken of within the Order but it was generally quietly accepted that assassins would find love and comfort and satisfaction wherever they could and their lives left little room for anything outside the Order. Why should Altair and Malik be any different?

Altair refused to leave Malik’s bedside until well after the sun had risen and a novice was sent to retrieve him. He was to be taken before Al Mualim, no doubt to face judgment for his actions in Solomon’s Temple. Altair stood and took one more look at Malik, a tangled mix of emotions on his face, before straightening his shoulders and turning to face the novice. He gestured for the boy to lead the way. 

The youngest master assassin history had ever seen strode forward fearlessly toward his destiny, head held high.

+++

The following evening Malik’s fever broke and soon after he opened his eyes for the first time since he’d passed out on the healers’ table. The first thing he noticed was the quiet. The room was silent and dark and he seemed to be alone. This confused him; his last memories were vague and fuzzy but he remembered other people surrounding him and light, bright light. He wondered where he was but the blackness was too thick to see anything. He vaguely realized he was lying in a bed and that the sheets under his back were sticking to his skin, damp with sweat. After a moment, Malik became aware of a sheen of moisture across his whole body and he shivered a little as he felt the cool night air touch the bare skin of his chest where he was not covered by a sheet. He was tired, exhausted, weariness unmistakable in all his limbs, making it nearly impossible to shift them to see if they still worked. 

Malik exhaled, a long sigh that let the tension run out of his body. When he drew in a fresh breath, he felt the first twinges of pain. In the span of a mere heartbeat, it had escalated to a body-wracking agony, leaving him gasping with the suddenness of it. Malik had known soreness and pain before, after sustaining injuries in the field or pushing the limits of physical exertion that his body was capable of but he had never known it like this. He had never thought it possible to hurt like he did now.

His entire body ached, a bone deep ache that stole the breath from his lungs. It felt as though he had been beaten mercilessly to the very brink of death. Slowly, a throbbing on the left side of his body outpaced the rest of the pain until it was all that he could feel. A hot pounding in his arm, that of blood rushing to a single point, pushed along by the beating of his heart. The sensation consumed his senses and he was helpless to stop it or dull it or ignore it. Malik drifted in a dark sea of searing pain, trying to catch his breath.

What had happened? What had brought him to this brink? He tried to remember and couldn’t. It was too blurry, too fuzzy.

Malik shifted and rolled onto his side, moaning. The sheet tangled around his legs as he drew his knees up to his chest, curling in on himself in a futile effort to escape the hurt. It didn’t help and after a moment tears burned in his dark eyes. He didn’t want this, didn’t want to hurt like this. He wished he had never woken up. 

He squeezed his eyes shut and felt the tears leak out, fat, salty drops that slid cool over hot skin. Malik hadn’t cried in years; he couldn’t recall the last time he had. No doubt it had been when he and Kadar were still small children. 

The thought of Kadar brought Malik up short. He wondered why his brother wasn’t there with him. Kadar was always there. The Al-Sayf brothers had rarely been separated, each being all the other had in the world after being orphaned at a young age. Malik had taken it upon himself to be the best brother he could be, looking after Kadar with all the mindfulness and affection of a parent. Such responsibility had caused him to mature quickly and he had always acted years older than his age. Even now, driven to tears by his physical pain, Malik wondered with concern where his younger brother was. Always worrying, that was Malik.

Altair had scolded him for it incessantly over the years that they had been friends—

And with that thought, Malik’s shaky world imploded on itself. It all came rushing back to him: Solomon’s Temple, how he had berated Altair for breaking the tenets of the Creed and the man had haughtily replied that his way was better. Malik had been so angry, angry that Altair just wouldn’t listen and always rushed into things headfirst without thinking, as if he didn’t know the meaning of caution. Malik had wanted to strangle Altair in that moment; for as much as Malik loved and cared for the younger assassin, lately he had consistently wanted to throttle the man for being arrogant and rash. Altair blatantly disregarded the Creed and the ways of their people and continued to get by with it. He was, after all, Al Mualim’s favorite.

Malik could almost taste the bitterness and anger on his tongue as he remembered how everything had gone horribly wrong, Altair being tossed from the room and his exit route being blocked off by falling rubble, leaving Malik and Kadar back to back to face the Templars. He recalled how they had fought with an edge of desperation, as if neither expected to actually make it out alive. Yet, Malik reflected, he had and had brought the artifact with him, essentially making the mission his success while it was undoubtedly Altair’s greatest failure. If things had ended differently, Malik could have felt some pride and accomplishment over that. But as it happened, the price that had been paid had been too great.

His brother had died.

Malik could still see Kadar’s face clearly in his mind, his unruly black hair and shining blue eyes, so different from Malik’s own deep brown ones. Kadar’s smile, always so easy and bright, as if nothing could ever upset him. Yet Malik knew that wasn’t true; his brother had sulked when lectured or disciplined in the way typical of a headstrong teenager and had been worried when Malik and Altair began arguing constantly over even the smallest things. Kadar had liked nothing better than when the three of them were together; he idolized Altair, admiring his seemingly endless skills and bravado, and loved Malik more than anything. Malik realized now that his younger brother had been amazingly perceptive; he had read the volatile dynamic between Altair and Malik seamlessly, had seen the intensity and passion that swirled between them and had sought to keep things light by injecting his own humor and light-heartedness into the mix. 

Kadar had only been nineteen years old.

A swell of pain filled Malik’s chest, rising and rising until it overrode even his physical discomfort. It was like a dike bursting, sudden and violent and unstoppable. Malik let out a single choked breath and then the tears were streaming across his face and he was sobbing, great heaving sobs that wracked his whole body. His hand gripped his pillow and pulled it tighter against his neck as he half turned his face into it, soaking it with his tears. The fabric did nothing to hide the sound of his pain and it rose steadily until it filled the room.

All he could think about was the fact that Kadar was never coming back. He would never be there again. Malik would never hug him or spar with him or run across the rooftops with him again, none of those things that the two of them had done together. Some part of Malik’s mind screamed about how it was Altair’s fault, that none of it would ever have happened if Altair had respected the Creed like he was supposed to. Malik acknowledged this and knew he ought to be angry at Altair, the man he had called friend and brother, the man he had loved, but in this moment all he could bring himself to feel was the pain of losing Kadar. 

It was a wave he rode and crested, even as he vaguely became aware of other people gathering around him and the onset of light, the dim yellow light of oil lamps. He felt someone touching him, a hand rubbing his back and fingers stroking through his disheveled hair, voices murmuring soothingly. Malik’s tears continued to come, seemingly endless. The caring and gentle ministrations of whoever was here with him continued as well.

Eventually, Malik’s sobs quieted and there were only hot trails of tears leaving his eyes. If he had been exhausted before, he was even more so now. He had no more energy left to vent his heartache. With a deep sigh, Malik allowed himself to slip into unconsciousness once more, knowing he would face a bleak world when he next woke.


	2. Chapter 2

When Malik woke again, it was no longer night. Gentle rays of sunlight were falling into the room, the harsh Syrian sun filtered by the gauzy curtains at the narrow window. He became aware of this gradually, as the reddish light behind his eyelids grew steadily brighter. He lay perfectly still, his breathing still deep and even with the last vestiges of sleep, listening to the sounds around him.

Outside, beyond the stone walls of the healers’ guild, he could hear the sounds of the Assassin Order going about their business. There was the crunch of booted feet over gravel, the clanking of weapons at hips, the murmur of voices, the clipping of horses’ hooves. Distantly, he could just make out the clashing of steel on steel as novices practiced their sword fighting skills in the training ring. Closer, he could hear the shuffling and muttering of the healers moving around beyond the curtain of his room. The healers were always busy; there was always someone ill or wounded who needed tending to.

Malik felt somehow detached from the world, separated from it, just outside the circle of everything that was familiar to him.

Slowly, he cracked his eyes open and squinted at the sunlight. A soft breeze rushed in the window and fluttered the curtain. Malik felt the warm air on his bare skin and took a deep breath of it, inhaling the faint scent of the scattered wildflowers that grew along the sides of the trail leading to the fortress. His exhale came out as a heavy sigh and for one more moment, his mind remained blissfully blank.

His eyes fixed on the ceiling as the memory of the last time he’d been awake came back to him. He remembered all over again that his brother had been killed and felt the ache of it deep inside his heart. His next breath was shaky with the pain of remembrance but there were no tears, not now. Malik thought that he had used up all his tears, at least for a while.

The rustle of the curtain to his room being swept aside drew his attention, a distraction he was thankful for. His gaze found the familiar surgeon about to stride in, his arms full of wads of bandages. The man looked up and paused when he saw that his patient was awake. Surprise flitted over his strong features; he had obviously expected Malik to sleep for much longer after the tumultuous night he’d had.

He said nothing at first but continued on into the room, the curtain falling closed behind him. Malik’s dark eyes watched him silently as he crossed the room and dumped the supplies onto the small table near the bed. After cursorily straightening the items there, the surgeon turned toward the bed and offered Malik a nod in greeting. “How are you feeling, Malik?”

Malik thought about it. The throbbing in his arm was still there but it wasn’t as potent as it had been before. The rest of his body seemed to be stiff but nothing was particularly painful. He shrugged a bit. “I’m alright,” he murmured, his voice rough from lack of use.

The surgeon looked immensely sad for the space of a heartbeat before his expression grew businesslike once more. “Well, if you find you become uncomfortable, please tell me. We have plenty of hashish oil.”

Malik nodded once and watched as the surgeon drug a stool close and sat down. “This next bit might be painful,” he warned. “I have to change your bandages.” He reached forward and Malik felt a slight tugging on his left arm. He tilted his head to get a look at what the surgeon was doing and found himself gasping in shock.

It was the first time he realized his arm wasn’t there.

The surgeon paused in his work with Malik’s arm half unwrapped and fixed a concerned gaze on his patient. “Malik?” His eyes widened slightly as he realized that Malik’s reaction was borne of something other than pain. “You didn’t know did you?”

Malik shook his head wordlessly, unable to tear his gaze away from the abrupt stump of his arm where it ended not far below his shoulder. He had known his arm had been wounded, the source of that damnable throbbing, but he had never thought to actually look until now. He could still feel his arm there, his hand against the sheets. Even now, the messages he was getting were conflicting, his eyes telling him the arm was gone while his brain could still somehow sense it.

Malik’s head swam with jumbled memories: the seemingly endless journey back to Masyaf from the Temple, the way he had yelled at Altair and condemned him in front of Al Maulim. He now remembered the stumbling walk to the healers’ guild when he had first begun to realize how badly he’d been hurt. Then the surgeon, the very same man who now sat at his bedside, telling him that his arm was too mangled to save. The surgery…the blinding pain as they had sawed his limb away and then the blessed darkness that had followed it.

Next came the crushing reality of what the loss of his arm truly meant. He would never return to active duty again within the Order. He was less than whole now, only a partial man. Not worthy or capable of being called an assassin. Malik knew well what happened to those who were too incapacitated to fight; they were cast aside and forgotten. He now faced the same fate and he supposed it only made sense. He was useless this way.

The pain of such a thought struck him hard and fast and he sucked in a shaky breath as sudden unbidden tears stung his eyes, the ones he had thought he had no more of. The surgeon was watching him with sympathetic eyes, his thumb rubbing small, soothing circles on the skin of Malik’s bicep. The man had done this one too many times, watched the lives of countless young assassins fall apart, but he reflected that it never became any easier to witness that moment when everything crumbled.

Malik blinked rapidly, trying to keep the tears back. By Allah, he had never wept so much in his life! Though he knew the surgeon was a professional man, Malik would rather save his grief for later when he was alone again. Malik had always thought of tears as weakness, one he had never had much use for, and he would rather not anyone see him that way. Last night’s episode had been bad enough. A few moments passed as Malik got ahold of himself and then he nodded at the surgeon to continue with what he needed to do.

The surgeon watched with a measure of amazement as Malik visibly pulled himself together. He had never seen another in this same type of position keep such an iron control over their emotions. The surgeon thought that maybe it was just that he had vast amounts of fortitude. With everything the young man had been through, it was testament to his strength that he wasn’t currently a sobbing mess.

At Malik’s permission, the surgeon continued with his work unwrapping the bloodied bandages from around Malik’s arm. His movements were careful as he peeled the cloth away from Malik’s bronze skin. Once the stump was bared to the cool air in the room, the surgeon leaned close and inspected the sutures, looking closely for any tearing or signs of infection. He hummed in approval when he found none. When he turned on his stool to reach for the jar of ointment nearby on the table, Malik spoke, his voice quiet and strained.

“I can still feel it. It’s like it is still there.”

The surgeon nodded. “That is not unusual. It will take some time for your body to adjust to the loss.”

The words only served to remind Malik of the bleak future ahead of him. What could he do now with his life? Being an assassin was the only life he’d ever known. It was what he’d been brought up to be, what he’d trained his whole life for. He was supposed to have a long, successful career as an assassin, especially now that he’d attained Master ranking. He’d gotten to enjoy the privilege and freedom such a position afforded for a year. And then, in the space of a day, it had all come crashing down around him and Malik didn’t know what he could ever do to put it back together again. It wasn’t supposed to end like this, dammit!

The surgeon continued with his ministrations, carefully dabbing the ointment over Malik’s stitches as he half-watched the rush of emotion cross the young man’s face. Once Malik’s façade cracked, his expressive features couldn’t hide a single thing. His expression swung back and forth between despair and grief, as if he didn’t quite know what he should be feeling. The surgeon knew anger would come eventually and he hoped no one got in Malik’s way when it happened. Malik Al-Sayf was well known for his quick wits, sharp tongue and eruptive temper. When Malik finally worked past the stage of self-pity, his anger was bound to be explosive.

And rightly so. He had been cheated of his birthright, after all.

The surgeon finished his work swiftly, wrapping Malik’s arm in fresh bandages and tying them securely. He tidied his supplies and then stood, pushing the stool away. He gazed down at Malik with a gentle expression.

“I’ll leave you alone for now,” he said quietly. “Call if you need anything.”

Malik barely nodded and then the surgeon slipped from the room. Malik heaved a sigh and stared up at the ceiling, thoughts caught in his assassin work, remembering vividly the way it felt to run free across the rooftops, leaping over the alleyways and scaling the walls of towers effortlessly. He thought of all the times that he and Altair had sprinted across the roofs of Acre and Damascus and Jerusalem, each of them alternately taking the lead, friendly competition spurring each of them to best the other. Their freerunning sessions had turned into races which had usually ended with them tumbling into a rooftop garden and into each other’s arms, breathless and elated. They had spent countless nights lost in each other that way as the bright desert stars burned overhead.

The thought of Altair made Malik’s heart twist painfully. He found himself conflicted; all of this, Kadar’s death, the loss of Malik’s arm, was Altair’s fault and yet he still held affection for the man. Malik shook his head, appalled at himself. How could he feel something other than hate for the man who had, in essence, killed his brother? What kind of person did that make him?

A sick one, Malik reasoned. A terrible brother. He should want to seek vengeance on those who had taken Kadar from him. _But I am so useless now I will have to find someone to do it for me. ___

The thought was bitter and equally bitter tears flooded his eyes, slipping out to track down through his temples. Malik slung his right arm over his eyes and lay silently, letting them slide hot and unchecked over his skin, so different from his anguished sobbing the previous night. That had been grief for Kadar and he had needed the world to hear it. This, now, was despair for no one but himself and this was meant for no one else.

Finally, Malik dozed off, his body exhausted from so much inner turmoil. He didn’t know how long he slept but he awoke with a jolt to a hand on his shoulder. Bleary, unfocused eyes shot open to see the surgeon standing above him, looking apologetic. “I am sorry for startling you,” the man murmured. “But you have a visitor.”

It took a moment for the words to dawn on Malik. “I-I do?”

“Yes.” The surgeon offered a small smile. “Our Master himself has come to see how you are doing.”

“Al Maulim is here?” Suddenly Malik was wide awake. He pushed himself up on his remaining elbow, suddenly desperate to present the Grand Master a better picture than that of an invalid in a bed. The surgeon seemed to understand and helped Malik sit up, propping a cushion behind his back so he could lean against the wall. Malik’s stiff body protested the movement and he winced at the pain that stabbed through his lower back and hips. He had been lying in this bed for several days, after all.

The surgeon pulled the sheets up around his hips and made sure Malik was covered before looking at him questioningly. Malik took a breath and steeled himself, then gave a nod, permission for the Grand Master to be let in. The surgeon headed for the curtained doorway.

Malik realized that his cheeks felt tight where his tears had tracked and dried as he’d fallen asleep earlier. He raised his hand and scrubbed his knuckles over his skin hastily, hoping his eyes weren’t bloodshot. It wouldn’t do to show the Master any weakness, for he had no doubt that Al Mualim would consider tears such. This, after all, was the man who ordered novices be taken from their mothers at the tender age of four years old.

Just as Malik finished rubbing at his face, the curtain was swept aside dramatically and Al Mualim appeared in the doorway. The old man stood as straight and proud as ever, his white beard neatly trimmed and his dark Grand Master robes immaculate. Never had Malik seen him looking anything other than completely put together. He was an intimidating figure and every assassin even the Masters, with the exception of Altair, were meek in his presence. Altair had long been Al Mualim’s favorite and had been allowed to say and do things others would have been severely punished for.

Now Al Mualim’s unfathomable eyes took in Malik from head to toe in a swift sweep. Malik couldn’t help feeling a bit like he was being appraised, almost like an animal at an auction. He resisted the urge to fidget and merely allowed the fingers of his lone hand to tighten almost imperceptibly in the sheet near his hip.

Al Mualim stepped into the room and let the curtain cover the doorway once more. Beyond it, the normal bustle of the healers’ guild was muted as the healers continued working but at a quieter pace than normal in an effort to show respect for the Master’s presence. Malik dipped his head deferentially. “Safety and peace to you, Master,” he said quietly.

Al Mualim returned the greeting as he moved across the room to seat himself on the surgeon’s stool. There was a brief beat of silence before the Grand Master began to speak, as if he were gathering his thoughts. “I am very sorry for all that has befallen you, my son.” His voice was solemn. “The loss of your brother is terrible but it broke my heart when I received word from the healers about your condition.”

Malik nodded slowly as he took in the words of condolence. His dark eyes sought Al Mualim’s. “What of Altair?” he asked.

Al Mualim’s expression hardened at the mention of his favorite student. “Altair has been dealt with,” he said darkly.

When he offered nothing further, Malik felt a sudden stab of panic. As hot as his anger toward the man burned, he still found himself upset at the prospect of a world without Altair. “Is he dead?” Malik asked faintly, hardly daring to believe that Al Mualim would have his star assassin executed. Altair was too valuable to the Order.

Al Mualim leaned forward and patted Malik’s shoulder briefly. “No,” he assured him. “But he has known pain.” He didn’t elaborate, leaving Malik to wonder exactly what had happened. Al Mualim sighed and sat back, folding his hands in his lap. “I have sent him out into the Kingdom in search of nine targets. He has been stripped of his rank and must regain his privileges and equipment back in the same way all novices must do as they are promoted.”

Malik found himself stunned by such punishment. He had expected perhaps a long stay in the underground cells beneath Masyaf fortress or a few assignments of journeyman status, just to knock Altair’s pride down a few notches. But this…this was a complete and total humiliation in full view of the entire Order. If Malik hadn’t agreed that it was exactly what Altair deserved, he would have felt sorry for the man.

“I hope he learns something from it.” Al Mualim sighed. “This has partially been my fault. I allowed him too much freedom to do as he pleased and he grew arrogant and careless. Altair must learn to honor the Creed once more, as he used to. Or there will be further consequences.” Al Mualim’s lips became a grim line and his eyes flashed as he spoke with a promise of justice. Malik imagined that any further failure on Altair’s part would prove to be fatal.

When Al Mualim’s gaze returned to Malik, his expression gentled somewhat. “And now there is the matter of what you will do, Malik,” he said, effectively turning the subject away from Altair. “As you well know, you will not be able to return to field service.”

Malik nodded and looked away, his cheeks burning in shame. “I know, Master.”

When Al Mualim spoke again, he sounded thoughtful. “You have always been quick-witted, Malik, and a fast learner. The Order could use your intelligence in the scholarly realm.”

Malik looked at the Master, his brows furrowed questioningly. “What do you mean?”

“There will be several openings in different cities for rafiqs. Some of the oldest rafiqs are retiring and the Order will need new ones to take their places. I think you would be well suited to the job as it would allow you to use that wonderful mind of yours to great effect. It is something you should consider.”

Malik mulled the idea over. He knew the job of a rafiq; assassins and rafiqs were well-acquainted. A rafiq ran a city’s Assassin Bureau, which served as a gathering point and refuge for all assassins residing in the city or others traveling through on missions. The rafiq was responsible for providing shelter, food and medical attention to the assassins under his jurisdiction as well as managing the city’s network of spies and informants. Rafiqs were trained as scholars but didn’t hold the same rank as the Order’s scholars who resided in the fortress at Masyaf; rafiqs were somewhere between scholars and Master Assassins, below scholars but just enough above Master Assassins to be able to issue them orders, and had a wide and varied skill set, which included an area of expertise that they could use as an alternate source of income, such as transcription or mapmaking.

Malik could see no better alternative. He knew his other choices would include becoming lost in the sprawling network of spies and informants in some distant city or providing some sort of labor here in the fortress, whether it be as a scholar’s assistant or a helper to any of the Order’s craftsmen, the blacksmiths or armor makers. Malik found the prospect of such a life incredibly dull. At least as a rafiq, he would have the chance to do something worth his while.

Al Mualim waited patiently as he watched Malik work through his thoughts. He already knew that the young man would agree; for someone as fiercely proud as Malik, there was no other choice, short of crawling into the bushes to die like a wounded animal.

Finally, Malik nodded. “That sounds…agreeable,” he murmured.

Al Mualim smiled brightly. “Excellent.” He stood up and prepared to leave. “I will inform the scholars of your decision and as soon as you are well enough to be up, you can begin your training.”

“Thank you,” Malik said and felt a sense of gratitude despite what he’d lost. He silently thanked Allah that he had been blessed with a quick mind for he might not otherwise have this chance for a fresh start in a new city, far from Masyaf and the memory of his brother.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For any of you who may have been waiting on an update, here it is and I am SO SORRY it took so long.

The next day, Malik decided he’d had enough of lying around.

“Take it slow now,” the surgeon was telling him as he put his feet on the floor and prepared to stand. They were bare and he wore only an old pair of trousers that a novice had brought over from his quarters in the Masters’ wing in the castle. “Everything is going to feel different. Your center of balance is going to be off.”

Malik nodded and rose. His legs proved wobbly at first and the surgeon hovered within arm’s reach, ready to steady him if need be. Malik waved off the man’s help as he slowly found his balance. He noticed that even just standing upright felt different; there was a distinct lack of weight on his left side, making him feel uneven. He was certain that if someone bumped him or pushed his shoulder, he would stumble, a concept he didn’t much care for. Malik had always been sure footed and coordinated.

Malik decided he wanted to see the sun. He hadn’t been outside since that ill-fated walk to the guild from the castle. The surgeon agreed that some fresh air would do him some good and trailed the young man as he made his way through the healers’ guild and out through the main entrance. Outside the sun was shining strongly at its zenith, marking the passage of midday. Malik squinted in the sudden blaze of light. He stood just outside the guild, his bare back turned to the sun, soaking in its warmth. He breathed the air deeply and savored the scent of all that was familiar to him; the fortress with its smells of horses and hay, leather and metal, Masyaf beyond with the scents of spices at the market and food cooking in kitchens. Faintly he could pick up the scent of the wildflowers from far off.

“Malik?” The surgeon’s voice came from behind his right shoulder. “What would you like to do?”

Malik briefly thought of taking a stroll around the fortress to stretch his legs but quickly decided against it, knowing everyone was bound to stare at him. Granted, it was something he would have to get used to; for the rest of his life, people would stare at him wherever he went. But it was not something he was prepared for right now.

“I think I will just stand here,” Malik replied quietly. “The sun feels nice.”

“Alright,” the surgeon murmured. Malik knew he couldn’t fool the sharp man. The surgeon knew very well why Malik wasn’t going anywhere but he wouldn’t push him. Malik would get around to things on his own time.

The two men stood in silence for a while and listened to the sounds of Masyaf going about its day. Malik pondered the irony that while life had seemed to stop for him, the world continued to go on without him. Without Kadar. Malik knew it would have ground on in the same fashion if he too had died. Time stopped for no one.

Malik had to wonder if there was anyone who would have missed him. There was a time when Altair would have but now Malik wasn’t so sure where the other assassin’s heart lay. Not to mention his own.

Suddenly Malik found himself glad that he would be leaving this place.

+++

Over the course of the next two weeks, Malik spent more and more time on his feet and he began taking walks through the village, not ready to face his brothers in the fortress. It didn’t take long for Malik to learn how to carry himself in a way that evened out his sense of balance and by the end of the week his gait was as steady and purposeful as ever. He also began to grow used to the curious eyes that followed his progress, his empty sleeve trailing after him.

He also spent a large amount of his time every day learning how to do basic things with only one hand. This included eating, dressing and bathing. Malik found it beyond frustrating when he reached for things as if he still had two hands only to remember that he didn’t. The phantom feeling of the arm still being there hadn’t abated.

Malik quickly learned the most efficient way to tie his sash was to use his teeth along with his hand but the buckles on his belt still continued to be a problem. Finally he settled for fumbling with the fastenings while the belt was turned backwards around his waist and then twisting it until it was settled correctly. Pulling his boots on one-handed was a struggle but he managed. He had to make concessions in other areas of his life, too. He found fast that bathing was a long arduous process now that he could no longer carry the cast iron basin in which the water heated. All of his water hauling would have to be with a pail and pouring it required a careful use of his hip as a brace where a second hand would have gone. He found that cutting meat was impossible; he had no choice but to spear the whole piece of meat on his knife and eat it that way.

The surgeon offered encouragement by saying that everything would become easier over time, that one day in the not too distant future Malik would be able to ties knots and buckle belts as swiftly as any man with two hands. Malik found that hard to imagine but he kept his misgivings to himself.

Until the day that he was preparing for his morning bath and the pail slipped against his hip and water went everywhere except where it was supposed to. Malik found his day’s clothes a soaking pile, a giant puddle all over the floor and the wash basin empty. He sighed, shoulders drooping as he let the pail clatter to the floor.

“Dammit,” he muttered, clenching his fist in frustration. Now he would have to clean all this up and then start the process over again. A long walk back down to the well, where drawing water was itself a chore, and back again lugging the pail to attempt the pouring once more. Malik decided that if this happened a second time, he was simply going to give up.

Footsteps drew near and Malik turned to see the surgeon approaching. The man appeared concerned. “What happened?” he asked. “I heard a commotion, so I came to make sure all is well.”

Malik shrugged and gestured helplessly at the mess he’d made. The surgeon took one look and nodded in understanding. “A mishap with the bucket, eh?”

“Something like that,” Malik muttered.

“It is fine,” the surgeon said. “I’ll help you clean up.” He disappeared again and returned in a minute with his arms full of rags. Malik took an armful from him and the two of them eased themselves onto their knees on the stone floor and began mopping up the water in silence, dropping the wet rags into the pail.

Minutes passed before the surgeon asked softly, “What is troubling you, Malik? Your silence is thoughtful.”

Malik sighed and sat back on his heels, tossing another soaked rag into the pail. The small smile he gave the surgeon was wry. “Can’t fool you, can I?” He reached for another rag and worried it between his fingers. “I am just frustrated with everything,” he said truthfully. “I feel useless. My brothers are out there,” and he gestured vaguely in the direction of the fortress courtyard and the training ring, “using their weapons and I can’t even take care of myself. How will I ever be able to run a Bureau if I can’t even pour water out of a bucket?”

And that was the truth of the matter. Malik had already lost his chance at being an assassin; he didn’t want to lose this chance to do something useful.

“You will learn. You must remember you have only been at this for a couple of weeks,” the surgeon said gently, pausing in his work to also sit back and look at the younger man. The surgeon reached out to lay a warm hand on Malik’s shoulder. “There are no limits on what you can do, Malik, if you have the determination to see things through.” He squeezed Malik’s shoulder once and then let go.

The cynical side of Malik’s brain scoffed and protested. There was no way that a one-armed man could do all the things a whole man could. That was only reasonable and logical, Malik knew. But he took the surgeon’s simple words of encouragement to heart, allowing them to give him a small glimmer of hope for a future that was not completely wasted.

+++

On the day that Malik was to begin training with the scholars he rose early, before dawn. He had bathed and dressed in record time and then found a secluded bench to sit on in the castle gardens. The air was still cool and held the faintest hint of dampness from the night. Everything was quiet and still, no breeze, no bustle of people beginning their days just yet. There was only the distant lowing of cattle. Mist clung to the mountains around the assassin stronghold like wraiths of all the Order’s fallen brothers, shimmering in the pale light as the sun slowly rose in the eastern sky. Malik sat quietly and watched the wispy clouds become stained in the hues of a new day, pink, gold, orange. A procession of colors appearing and fading as quickly as the stages of one’s life. Finally, the molten ball of the sun peeked over the mountaintops, slowly burning the mist away. Birds began to sing with the promise of a new day.

Malik took in these moments of peace like a parched man might drink water, deeply and appreciatively. Watching the sunrise was something he hadn’t had time for since childhood. He thought that maybe now, without all the distractions and demands of an assassin’s life, he might find time for some of the things he liked to do, time for himself, and he had to admit that the idea sounded good.

Perhaps there was some good yet to come of this mess his life had turned into.

When the sun had fully risen above the mountains and Malik could hear the first stirrings inside the fortress, he rose and made his way through the sprawling gardens and into the castle. He knew where he needed to go; he had spent much time in the Masyaf library as a child and novice, losing himself in the scrolls and manuscripts. He had always felt at peace there and as he entered the vast room now he found that feeling hadn’t left him. It was small comfort to know some things would never change.

There was an elderly scholar there to greet him; he’d obviously been expected but Malik was taken aback at the delight in the man’s eyes.

“Safety and peace, Master Al-Sayf,” the scholar greeted him, bowing slightly. “I am Abdu. I and my colleagues are most delighted to welcome you.” He paused and the light in his brown eyes dimmed for a moment. “Alas, we are sorry for the circumstances which led you to us, but we are happy to have you.”

“Thank you,” Malik said faintly, not quite sure what to make of this reception.

“Come, this way,” Abdu motioned for him to follow as he set off into the sea of bookcases. “Your reputation precedes you, Master Al-Sayf.”

“My reputation?” Malik’s brows furrowed in confusion.

“Oh yes,” Abdu continued. “We all know of your academic excellence. You have a brilliant mind, Master Al-Sayf, and we are most honored to have you in our branch of the Order.”

Malik let a small chuckle slip from his lips; it felt foreign. He hadn’t so much as laughed once in the past weeks. “I had been told once by my old teacher that my intelligence was wasted on an assassin’s life. He said that any idiot can learn to fight and kill but only the truly intelligent could learn the secrets of the written word.”

Abdu nodded smartly. “I would say that your teacher was correct.” He made a sharp left turn and Malik had to step lively to keep up. Ahead, at the end of the row of tall bookcases, he could see a cluster of desks tucked away in the corner of the library. The murmur of several voices floated toward them, apparently a handful of scholars embroiled in work. Malik had only been to the scholars’ corner a handful of times and not in several years. Scholars were normally left to their own devices and only sought out when no other resource satisfied one’s requirements. He would most certainly have wandered aimlessly for a bit searching for them among the laden shelves if Abdu had not appeared to guide him.

Abdu clapped his hands together once sharply to get the attention of his brethren as he entered the clearing where the desks were situated. Immediately the chatter ceased and four inquisitive faces turned to look at the old man. “Attention, everyone!” Abdu’s voice held a note of excitement as he made his announcement. “Master Al-Sayf has come to join us and begin his training!”

There was a brief beat of silence as this registered and then the scholars all smiled widely and began talking at once, pushing back from their desks to stand and greet Malik properly, leaving their scrolls and ledgers open and quills lying on blotting rags. Malik found himself surrounded by his new colleagues, answering their greetings in a surprised daze. He hadn’t realized how highly regarded his academic achievements were among the scholarly members of the Order but he was fast finding out.

“Master Al-Sayf, do you still work with maps? We haven’t had a proficient cartographer in years!”

“Have you studied any other languages? I had heard you studied Spanish some years ago.”

“It’s my understanding that you managed the household books while you were a novice. You’ll be well-suited to running a Bureau then!”

Malik felt blindsided by their outpouring of enthusiasm but still tried to answer their queries honestly. Yes, he still worked with maps, yes, he had studied Spanish, though he probably wouldn’t remember much of it by now, and yes, he had managed the expense ledgers for the household. He had been quite good at it too and able to secure several deals with vendors and merchants in Masyaf that saved the family quite a bit of money. Malik had always been talented at bargaining and haggling and he realized belatedly that this was also going to be a useful skill in running a Bureau, where he would be responsible for obtaining day to day supplies.

Abdu finally managed to calm his colleagues with a stern voice and waving hands to get their attention. “Alright, alright. Enough questions for now. Master Al-Sayf will be with us for several weeks and you will each have the chance to work with him.” The old scholar made a shooing motion at the others. “Go back to your work. It won’t complete itself, you know.”

The others grumbled good-naturedly but obeyed after a few moments. It seemed that Abdu was in charge, whether due to age or official rank or some internal pecking order, Malik didn’t know. He felt bewildered by the riotous welcome but also glad of it somewhere deep down. It gave him a kernel more of hope that he was on the right path.  
Abdu patted his good arm in a friendly yet apologetic way. “Please excuse their zealousness. We don’t get too many recruits in this branch of the Order and never any former Masters, to be sure. Certainly few as promising as you, either.”

Malik shrugged and favored the old man with a small smile, the first one to curl his lips in what seemed like ages. “It’s quite alright. It’s…comforting, in a way.” He didn’t expound on exactly what he meant but a knowing glint in Abdu’s dark eyes seemed to say that he understood anyway. When he spoke next, it was in a crisp and businesslike tone, for which Malik was entirely grateful.

“Come, Master Al-Sayf. You’ll have a desk right over here. Once you’re settled, we’ll start discussing the basics of what you need to know for running an Assassin Bureau.”


End file.
